100 words: an exercise encouraged by Mr London Street.
I'm early, he’s late. Forty minutes; enough time to imagine a thousand ways to die.
The duty Doctor- he’s new to me, but he knows me from the screen.
‘What seems to be the trouble?’ I hate that question with the emphasis on ‘seems’...as if we love the surgery so much with it’s uncomfortable red leather seating and ‘whoop on a loop’ music we will make up sickness just to be here.
I don’t lie; I tell him I felt ill and chesty before I stopped smoking.
He listened; ‘breathe’ and here ‘breathe’ then ‘again’.
‘A bad chest infection.’